The Elephant in the Room
by hap.e.daze
Summary: "Do principles of physics also account for the fact that a drunk carnie probably put this ferris wheel together in less than three hours?" asked Claire. My take on Mac and Claire's early days. Could be a sequel to my story, First Night; Can also be read as a stand-alone. Mac/Claire


A/N: I enjoyed writing First Night, my version of how Mac and Claire met. I decided to clean up Part II - you can probably get by if you didn't read the first one but it is actually a sequel. Hope you enjoy. PS - I don't own the CSINY characters.

* * *

_The Elephant in the Room_

Mac stood at the pay phone, gripping the receiver in his hand. He pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper on which was written Claire's Brooklyn phone number. He wasn't sure why he was calling. He hadn't seen her in six months after all and had only talked to her twice. They hadn't spoken since she had moved to home in December, an entire five months ago, and Mac felt uncomfortably shy about calling her at her parents' home. She had, however, written him letters since the move, and while he didn't get one _every _week, Mac had assembled a collection of fourteen hand-written notes.

They were always heartfelt, sometimes poetic but sometimes surprisingly blunt. She mostly used blue ink on white notebook paper, but sometimes she used crisp cream stationery with a navy blue monogram. One of her letters started on such stationery – in red ink – and ended on the back of a napkin. It amused him more than she knew. Her handwriting was always neat when she started, but usually ended in a scrawl. Her signature was often just a "C". Sometimes she added, "XOXO".

Mac rarely wrote letters himself, but he made an exception for Claire. Once again, he didn't know how she had come to occupy a place in his head, and why he was bothering with letters to a nineteen-year old. And yes, that meant she was still a teenager, he reminded himself. But in the letters, Mac felt he was speaking to a soul mate – He wrote about his father's illness, but with that, he also wrote about the formal, distant relationship he had with the man. There was no tension between them; there was simply little emotion. He was haunted by his inability to bridge the gap. Claire urged him to try, told him to speak from the heart, maybe even write a letter, she encouraged.

Occasionally, he philosophized in the letters. He had never second-guessed himself as a Marine, but his father's illness had called everything into question. Maybe he should be home, helping his mother. Maybe his dad really wanted that. Maybe he wanted him to dedicate his life to academia. Maybe that would make him proud. Claire's reply was swift: _Why do you care so much about what your dad wants if he doesn't want to tell you?_ Blunt honesty, Mac had to admit. _Live your own life, _she ordered. Then she added a smiley face.

He often wrote the letters between the hours of 1 and 3 in the morning when nightmares stole his sleep. He spoke of the insomnia to Claire, described physical scars that remained after his deployment to Lebanon, admitted to emotional ones that lingered beneath the surface. Claire replied by telling him she wouldn't engage in armchair psychology, but if he really couldn't sleep, would it be so bad to talk to a doctor about it? Then she wrote that if she was ever lucky enough to spend another night with him, she could think of things to do during the night. Mac couldn't stop smiling after reading that letter.

It wasn't NYU, she wrote in her letters, but Brooklyn College was a good alternative. She adored being in class every day, surrounded by people who had goals. In one letter, she was going to major in Accounting. In the second, it was Classics. By the third, she was thinking Math or Finance. She lived at home – which she didn't like – but it was rent-free and mostly drama-free, she reported. Her parents were keen on ensuring she finished school and she wasn't going to complain about home-cooked meals, even if it did mean she had to babysit for her eleven year old brother once in a while.

Mac approved, although he didn't tell her that. It smacked of paternalism, and it would only emphasize the age gap between them. Instead, he encouraged her studies. By the fourth letter, he realized Claire needed no encouragement. The top of the Dean's List would be an easy accomplishment for her.

She wanted a _decent _summer job, and she was dissatisfied with the lifeguard / popcorn-maker at the movie theater / nanny for bratty kids options that awaited her. She wanted an _internship,_ she emphasized, something that would give her real experience for a real career. The only option she found involved little more than glorified filing services, but it was at one of the top accounting firms in New York. Her father encouraged it and seemed indifferent to the fact it didn't pay a dime.

Once in a while, Claire's letters were morose. She was lonely. Her friends had moved on six months before her, living in dorm rooms or sorority houses on wooded liberal arts campuses. She wondered about her child and if she had made a mistake in giving him up. Sometimes she had nightmares herself, she confided, and she admitted to crying herself to sleep on several occasions.

With every personal admission, though, Mac felt closer to her. He looked forward to the correspondence, and would smile when he saw the envelopes in his mailbox. At first, he would rip open the letter and start reading before he made it inside his apartment. But as the letters got longer, Mac found himself engaging in bizarre rituals. He would reach for a cold beverage, turn on some music, sit back in his chair and only then would he open the letter. He practically heard her voice as he read.

But, letters were just letters, and they had no plans to visit each other. So when Mac realized he was being sent to New York for Fleet Week 1988, he didn't call. He didn't know why he didn't call, other than he really hadn't had much notice of the trip. But when he was there, he felt as if he were deceiving her by being in the same city without telling her. He waited two days, carrying her phone number around, debating the options. Finally, in a what-the-hell kind of moment, he stood at the payphone, pulled out the wrinkled piece of paper, and punched the numbers in.

* * *

Mac stood outside the subway stop and watched the crowd pass. A train had just arrived, but Claire wasn't among the passengers emerging from beneath the street. He double-checked the intersection. This was it, he reassured himself. Claire said she'd come up these stairs. He stood straight, tempted to lean against the streetlamp as he waited, but he was wearing his uniform and he was a Marine officer after all. He didn't want to look slovenly. Suddenly, he felt a nudge on his shoulder. "Hey," the voice said.

He turned, surprised to see Claire. "I was waiting for you here," he said, nodding towards the stairs that led up to the street.

"I came out on the other side," she explained. "But you were easy to find, what with the uniform and all."

Mac chuckled quietly and did a quick once-over on Claire. A plain white tank, faded jeans and gray Converse sneakers. Big silver hoops hung from her ears. Red lipstick shimmered on her lips. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "You look great," he said.

"Really," she smiled, tucking her hair behind her ears. "I made a big effort," she said in a sarcastic tone. Yet Mac guessed she had put in a little time deciding between casual and dressy. Mac himself had done the same dance, ending up in the uniform, as they had been encouraged. Her hair was darker now, Mac noticed. Not really strawberry blond, but more reddish-brown. Claire started walking without a word as to direction. He fell in line beside her and commented, "Your hair is different."

"It's not dyed anymore." She held the ends up and said, "The ends are still blondish, but the sun turned it a little pink so …" Mac nodded. When she showed him, he could see it. She reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of gum. She asked suddenly, "Have you quit?"

"Smoking?" he asked in response. She nodded. "Yep," he said. "Well," he hedged. "I did smoke again for a few days back in March but I quit again." She nodded but didn't comment further. Mac didn't think she smoked anymore either. She smelled clean and if there's anything an ex-smoker can smell, it's the intoxicating scent of cigarette smoke. Most people are repulsed by it. Smokers crave it even after they quit.

They stopped at a red light and the corners of Mac's lips turned up. "What?" she challenged.

"This is a little weird," Mac replied, smiling faintly. "No greetings. No, 'I missed you', 'it's good to see you,' or 'what have you been doing for six months?' Nothing. Instead, you're informing me you used to dye your hair." She pursed her lips together and raised her eyebrows, amused.

"I guess I didn't miss you," she said in a way that let Mac know that she had missed him. Terribly. He reached over and rest an arm across her shoulder and pulled her close. He had missed her too. After a comfortable moment, he released her and she asked, "Do you want to get a beer?"

"Aren't you 19?" he replied, tongue-in-cheek.

"That's not really your problem, is it?"

"I'm not buying," Mac replied. "I can't break the law while I'm in uniform."

"Oh my god," she laughed, wrapping her hand around his arm. "You're such a stickler for the rules."

He smirked a little but let her lead the way. A bouncer stopped them at the door of the first bar she saw. He read Mac's ID and nodded for him to enter. As Mac stood inside, the bouncer looked at Claire's, held it up to her face, scowled and handed it back to her. "Nice try," he said. Mac couldn't help but laugh at Claire's expression of outrage. The bouncer said to her sternly, "Not tonight. Take off or I'm calling the cops."

Mac turned sideways to squeeze past the bouncer and exited to follow Claire. The bouncer shook his head, letting Mac know the fake ID was really not that sophisticated. Or else, he was wondering what a Marine was doing taking an underage girl into a bar. Mac put that thought out of his head. Claire didn't speak and Mac could practically see the steam rising out of her ears. After a few moments, he said, "So now what?"

"Asshole," she mumbled.

"Me?" he teased, smiling a bit.

"Can you believe that?"

"It _is _the law," he commented, laughing now. She glared at him, but finally released a smile. "How often does that thing work?" he asked. She shrugged, unwilling to answer. It occurred to Mac that perhaps she didn't use it as often as she had let Mac think, and she was suddenly at a loss at what to suggest for entertaining him. The age gap suddenly felt very real. He bit his bottom lip. "Hey," he said quietly just as the silence was getting awkward. "Some buddies of mine said there's a carnival at Battery Park. You wanna check it out?"

"A carnival?" she asked dubiously. He nodded. She shrugged. "I guess."

"It'll be fun," Mac insisted. "Come on."

* * *

Claire slid closer to Mac and grimaced as the seat of ferris wheel rocked back and forth. Just when they were cresting over the very top, the ride had stopped, without warning, as carnival rides often do. "I hate this," she said, practically closing her eyes. She took a deep breath, and Mac could tell she really didn't like it. She was scared of heights.

He peered over the edge of the car and admired the lights from the boats in the harbor. "You don't like being stuck on the top of the world?" he asked, letting her know that he was enjoying the view. "Look," he nodded. Mac shifted and the car rocked. He pointed at the boats. "Wouldn't it be great to be on a boat right now?"

"Please don't move," she ordered quietly. "I don't want the seat to tip so we fall out."

"Honestly, Claire, principles of physics tell us that there is no way we can get enough leverage to rock the seat all the way back and tip over unless one of us actually stood up, in which case we'd be more likely to topple out of it than flip the seat over."

She exhaled and clenched her jaw, clearly nervous and not appreciative of Mac's geeky reassurance. "Do principles of physics also account for the fact that a drunk carnie probably put this ferris wheel together in less than three hours?" Mac smiled and rest his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. "And I don't buy your hypothesis either. Have you ever tested it?"

Mac shrugged. Finally, he winked. "No. It's not a proven theory."

"So sit still," she ordered. Mac sat still. She had pulled her hair into a ponytail but her long bangs were falling over her face and Mac resisted the urge to move it out of her eyes, just for an excuse to touch it. He looked down, kids weaved in and out of the crowd, white lights were strung from tents, underneath were games that no one would win, food carts offered cotton candy and funnel cakes. It reminded him of the much smaller version of a carnival that was set up in the grocery store parking lot around the corner from his childhood home. It would pop up overnight one Saturday in May and stay through the steamy summer until it came down without warning in August.

"Have you ever been to Chicago?" he asked suddenly. She shook her head. "You should come sometime. It's a bit like New York." He paused a beat. "Only smaller," he added. "Seems like there are more quiet neighborhoods, I guess." Claire nodded silently. _There are quiet neighborhoods here, too_, he heard in her silence. Mac offered, "Maybe it's just I know Chicago, and I've really only been to Manhattan when I've visited New York."

"Do you miss it?"

"Little bit," he acknowledged.

"Do you get homesick?" she asked quietly.

He shook his head in ambivalence. "I love Chicago, though," he said finally. "If I ever leave the Marines?" She nodded and waited. "I'm going back home. I can't imagine living anywhere else."

She bit the inside of her cheek and then turned her face to him. "My baby lives in Chicago." Mac tilted his head and she nodded. "That's where the family was from." He looked at her with questioning eyes, asking silent questions without speaking. She shrugged. "It's … complicated. But, anyway, that's where they live."

"You have a picture?" he asked.

"A picture?" she asked in response. Mac nodded. She hesitated and Mac wondered if he had pushed too far. After a second, she shifted in the car for her purse. She froze when the car rocked and grabbed Mac's arm. Mac's eyes sparkled in amusement at her fear. She frowned, but slowly moved and opened the purse. She dug in her wallet and then pulled out a tiny snapshot, taken in the hospital. "That's him," she said, handing it to Mac.

The corners were frayed and the photograph was already yellowed. He glanced at Claire and hated that she had tears in her eyes. _Damn_, he thought. "I'm sorry," he said, handing it back fast. "I shouldn't have asked to see it."

"No," she said, blinking quickly. "I shouldn't be such a wimp about it." She laughed now and tucked it back into her wallet. "I'm an idiot, Mac. Just …" She shook her hands in the air and said, "New topic, Mac … And forget I'm a baby, okay?" He chuckled at her characterization of herself, but he rest his arm around her again and this time pulled her a little closer. She rest her head on his shoulder, and he adjusted his hand so his thumb gently brushed against the tattoo of an adoption symbol decorating her shoulder. He would change the subject, but he acknowledged her grief.

"You're not a baby," he said after a moment. She didn't reply but Mac felt her nod.

* * *

Claire kicked her legs back and forth at the wooden counter in the middle of the food section of the carnival. It was a temporary structure, a roof covered them, but there were no walls so they were open to the activity of the midway. Mac sat beside her, his dress shoes covered in sawdust from the carnival. Claire sucked at a root beer float through a straw while Mac was satisfied with a Coke. A plate of French fries was between them. A cheap blue elephant rest on the chair on the other side of Claire, the prize from having knocked over three floating ducks. "I didn't know you were a sniper," Claire said, pointing at the elephant.

Mac chuckled and shrugged. He pointed at one of the badges on his uniform. "For marksmanship. Stick with me, and you'll have a bedroom full of stuffed animals. I always win at the carnival," he said seriously. Claire giggled at his joke before turning quiet. Carnival music, kids screaming, parents issuing directives - All of it surrounded them, making conversation unnecessary. Mac enjoyed being near her, even when they didn't speak. He glanced at Claire and she seemed equally content.

He began to play with the straw wrapper. He rolled it into a little ball and then reached for Claire's wrapper. He rolled hers too. Then, he unrolled it and stretched it into a narrow line and smoothed it against the surface of the counter with his index finger. He looked up at Claire and she arched an eyebrow. "Sorry," he said, pushing the paper aside.

She laughed a little and then leaned forward. "What are you thinking about? You seem like you're in another world." He shook his head. _Nothing really. He just liked being with her. _"How's your dad?" she asked suddenly. Mac wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "Is he any better?"

"He's not any worse," Mac said with a nod. "And that's a good thing when it comes to cancer. You know, they're saying things like, 'treatable but not curable.'" He paused a moment. "He lost his hair and that was a little odd to see. I was home at Easter," he informed. "But, he's still working and that's huge," Mac acknowledged.

"Keeps him going, right?"

"Exactly," Mac said.

"Can I ask you something personal?" Mac smiled, expecting a question no matter what his reply would be. "You're not dating anyone, are you?" Mac blushed a little and looked away. "Are you?" she asked again.

Finally, he looked at her, assessing her. Her eyes were serious, so he replied seriously, "No."

She doused a French fry in ketchup and popped it in her mouth, smiling. "Do you think you could be persuaded to date me?" she asked. Mac laughed now. "What do you think?"

"I think you should just keep eating," he ordered with teasing eyes. She stopped chewing and waited, her expression serious again. Mac reached for her hand and squeezed. Then he ran his other hand over his face in frustration. He said honestly, "I don't know." She looked embarrassed and Mac added, "I've probably made a mistake here. I've been leading you on and letting you think …" He exhaled before saying, "I just really like spending time with you. But there's this big huge looming elephant in the corner of the room." She glanced at the blue elephant on the chair, trying to make light of his comments. Mac smiled and then he said quietly, "I'm too old for you. And this …" He gestured between them. "This thing can't work, Claire. I just …"

"Why are you so hung up on the age thing?"

"Why _aren't _you?" he countered. "You think if I stopped at your parents' house tonight, they'd be good with this? Did you even tell them you're out with me tonight?" She blushed and looked away. "I didn't think so," he said triumphantly.

"So what? That proves your point?" she said in irritation. Then she stood up. "You know what I think?"

"I'm sure you're about to tell me," Mac said, reaching for his wallet to pay for the food. He slid the slip of paper with the total closer to him.

"I think Julia was right," she snapped.

"Julie," Mac said, correcting the name of his ex-girlfriend. He began to count out the dollars. "And in what way?" he glared.

"You _do _have commitment issues."

Mac burst out laughing, with a shake of his head. "Just with her," he asserted, reading the bill more carefully.

"Liar." Mac exhaled, trying to focus on the conversation with Claire while calculating an 18% tip simultaneously. "Actually," she hissed. "I'm done."

Mac's smile evaporated. He sighed, dropping the money on the counter. He nodded at the server, pointing towards the money. Claire was already ten feet away and Mac jogged to catch up. He reached for her elbow and she snatched it back. She looked at him and announced, pointing at him, "I think I'm done begging you to like me. If you don't like me enough to think –"

"Claire," Mac interrupted.

She turned away and kept speaking. "If you don't like me enough to think this is worth it, then I'm not going –"

"Hey," he said softly. "Stop, would you?" She stopped and slowly turned back to him. She arched an eyebrow. He sighed and stayed quiet, thinking about his words. Finally, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and offered a half-smile. "This is crazy," he said. She smiled and nodded. "I've seen you twice in six months and …" He ran a hand over his face before admitting, "And I can't get you out of my head." She smiled even wider. "I think about you all the time and I wonder what you're doing, how you're doing. When I can see you again." He took a deep breath before adding, "And I wonder how long I have to wait until this age gap is 'appropriate'." Claire laughed now.

She leaned up and kissed his lips. Mac didn't reciprocate, but Claire didn't care. "It's not going to be 'appropriate,'" she whispered. "Not until you're fifty and I'm forty-two. Then we're good."

"That's how long, huh?" Mac said, looking down at her.

She whispered, her hands on his chest. "That's how long you have to wait if 'appropriate' is important to you."

"That's a long time," he said, closing whatever gap was left.

Claire smoothed his jacket and then placed her hands on his biceps before sliding them down his arms to his hands. Mac gave them to her and she linked her fingers in his. "It's time for you to kiss me," she said. "We'll figure the rest out later."

Mac nodded. He took a step towards her and nodded again. "Yeah," he whispered. "Okay." He leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers. She reached for the back of his neck and Mac placed one hand on her face and the other one fell in her hair. He held her tight as his soft lips tasted root beer and French fries. She was intoxicating and Mac didn't want to break free. Finally, he stepped back, chewed his lip and whispered, "I don't want to wait that long."


End file.
